Ruby Slippers
by Cathartes
Summary: Five times that Patrick Jane tried to help his boss.
1. Indifference

**I do not own The Mentalist and am not profiting from this work of fan fiction**

**0*0**

So far Monday was off to a great start: a witness had already thrown up down the front of Lisbon's shirt, and it wasn't even noon yet. Of course she'd kept her cool the whole time – _please, don't worry about it, it's nothing_ – and continued to wear the shirt after nothing more than a few ineffectual swipes with a damp paper towel.

Unfortunately Jane's latest prank (he had hypnotized a city alderman on a dare from Rigsby) had Lisbon scheduled for a 2 pm chat with Minelli.

Lisbon's comment: "I'm going to need a different shirt for that."

"You really can't even tell," promised Van Pelt earnestly. They all contemplated the brownish stain.

"Maybe," said Lisbon, "But I'm pretty sure I smell. I need to go and buy a new shirt."

"And here I thought you cops always packed a spare," teased Jane. "What happened to being prepared?"

Cho answered for everyone. "That's the boy scouts."

"I do usually keep a change of clothes in my desk," said Lisbon unhappily. "I'm already wearing it. I went for a run this morning and changed when I got here."

"You can borrow mine!" suggested Rigsby. He held up a shirt that could probably fit a linebacker, but definitely not Lisbon.

"Not sure, but I think Minelli would notice that," said Lisbon. "Thanks anyway. I'll be back in ten minutes – Rigsby, go and interview the wife again, I want to hear her thoughts on this missing money. Van Pelt, go with him. Cho, if the brother-in-law gets here before I'm back, keep him on ice. And Jane – keep, uh, napping on the couch."

"You got it, boss!" said Jane brightly, from his usual spot.

Lisbon snagged her jacket from the coat rack in her office, feeling for her wallet in the breast pocket, and headed off in the direction of the elevators. Jane held his position for the count of ten, then leapt to his feet and hurried after her.

The other agents met each others' eyes and then looked away, mutually deciding not to comment.

--

Jane managed to keep sight of Lisbon's brisk little figure, cutting across the street on foot and ducking into a parking garage. He followed her to the building and out onto the street on the other side, where she crossed a parking lot to a shopping center he had never noticed before.

It was a crappy little strip mall, anchored by a Sears and a JC Penny. Jane hung back as she entered the front door of the latter, knowing she would notice him in the open space – then he trotted in after her. He felt a little bit like a stalker, but didn't let that stop him. Ah, there she was – just past the perfume counter. They both had to duck and weave around the strollers and straying children that crowded the center aisle.

Jane was enjoying the opportunity to observe Lisbon's natural behavior in the wild, like those documentaries of animals on the Serengeti filmed with aerial photography. She didn't look left or right as she passed the makeup counter and she cut through the rack of bright-colored dresses without slowing down. Of course she would avoid anything feminine or attractive.

He watched her head for the back wall of the Petites section and thumb through a display of white button-up shirts marked 20 % off.

Well, this was disappointing.

"I think that's the exact same shirt you're wearing," he announced, letting his disapproval read in his voice as he came up from behind her.

Lisbon didn't do anything nearly so entertaining as squealing, jumping, or grabbing her heart. She kept flipping through the rack without turning around. "I didn't know you shopped here," she said neutrally.

"In Petites? Oh yes, you know the sleeves on regular shirts are always too long," he responded, nodding. "I hate having to roll them up." He saw her back stiffen and hid his smile, knowing that she _did_ find regular clothes too long on her.

"And in the women's section, no less."

"It hardly matters, since that shirt has no gender," he informed her, taking it out of her hands. Yup, it was a white button-up with a placket front and single needle top stitching. No doubt it was also machine-washable and wrinkle resistant.

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "There's nothing wrong with that shirt," she said.

"There's nothing _right_ about it, either," said Jane dismissively. With more enthusiasm he continued, "You know what would look nice on you, with your coloring, is something in a jewel tone. You wear too many neutrals."

"Thanks for the tip. But I like neutrals, they're easy to match."

"No, you like _variety_, you just don't know it yet!"

"I don't like variety. I own the same pair of pants in three colors – black, brown and grey."

"You're killing me here."

Deftly, Lisbon snagged the shirt out of Jane's hands and spun on her (sensible) heels, heading for the check-out counter.

"Aren't you even going to try it on, see if it fits?" Jane wagered, playing for time.

"Why wouldn't it fit," said Lisbon blankly, "it's my size. C'mon, Jane, we don't have all day – that brother-in-law is supposed to come into the office this afternoon and I want to see what he knows."

Shaking his head, Jane trailed after Lisbon like one of the toddlers in the store, stopping to tug on items of clothing as they passed. "Look, Lisbon, this would look great on you!" he held up a dark blue silk shirt with capped sleeves and a ruffled front.

"Let's go, Jane," said Lisbon, not turning around.

"Look at the skirts! I bet you don't even _own_ a skirt."

"I own skirts," she said defensively, over her shoulder. She got in line behind a hirsute woman whose arms were full of very large brassieres. "Definitely at least one. It's black, knee length, a whatchamacallit – pencil skirt."

"Fascinating," said Jane. He stopped to run his hands longingly over a cotton sundress in bright summer colors – orange and yellow. It actually wouldn't have flattered Lisbon (it was cut too low in the waist, he decided) but his wife had worn something similar sometimes, on lazy summer afternoons.

Ignoring the familiar stab of longing, he came to stand next to Lisbon in line. "What about a dress? You must wear something to the Policeman's Ball?" He kept his eye on the racks of clothing and not the rack on the woman in front of them. But he couldn't help glancing over once. Wow, she could actually go up a size, even. What were those bras, DDD's? No, no, those wouldn't do - she needed to be shopping in a specialty store.

"That's not a real event," Lisbon informed him with narrowed eyes, distracting him before he could make up his mind to offer the lady his advice. "Or if it is, I've never been invited. But yes, I have a dress. Navy blue, high neckline. It's nice."

"And shoes?"

"Navy blue pumps."

"Interesting."

"Actually I own the whole thing in black, too," said Lisbon, obviously amused now. "The same dress, same shoes. I have a necklace that goes with it either way."

"You don't want to look great," observed Jane, in wonder, watching the lady pay for the bras she would probably need to return.

"In my position, it's more important to look professional than great," said Lisbon flatly.

As she stepped up to buy her shirt, Jane turned to look back at the blue silk number and tried to imagine her wearing it. It was difficult to picture, actually: it was hard for Jane to imagine Lisbon as a regular woman, doing woman things, with her hair in foils or putting on mascara. He assumed she must participate in such activities – sometimes her hair was wavy and other times straight, so that implied that she spent time styling it, right?

Lisbon accepted her bag from the woman behind the counter and started to walk towards the exit. "Are you coming?"

Jane had to admit he'd lost this battle – in fact Lisbon had abandoned him and was already half-way out the door, having completely ignoring his wardrobe input. But he looked back at racks of clothing and reflected that Christmas was only six months away.


	2. Fury

Jane pushed open the door to Lisbon's office and strolled inside as if he owned the place, which was how he typically entered a room. Rather than acknowledging him Lisbon kept her seat at the desk – it took him a moment to take in the fact that she was listening to the speakerphone. She seemed tense, and he leaned against the wall to listen in shamelessly.

"I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this," a man's voice was saying. He sounded annoyed, and Jane found himself surprised at the thought of someone speaking to Lisbon like that. "Seriously, Tess, this is a no-brainer."

_Tess_, mouthed Jane in wonder. As if anybody would ever call Lisbon by her first name, never mind _shorten_ it. Then again, there were many liberties that the mystery man could be taking with the formidable Agent Lisbon.

"Jane, this isn't a good time," said Lisbon, her eyes flicking to him and then back to her phone. "You'll have to come back in five minutes."

"Who's that there?" said the voice on the phone.

"It's a colleague. Michael, let's talk about this tonight, okay? I'm at work, I've got a lot to do." Jane narrowed his eyes at the tone of her voice; it was cajoling, even pleading, not at all like her usual confident tone. Interesting.

"Fine but we don't have all the time in the world here, okay? No more time to _weigh all the options_, right?"

Lisbon looked away from the phone, as if she was refusing to meet the caller's eyes. "Okay." Her voice was gentle. "I'll talk to Andy tonight, and if he agrees, then – that's what we'll do."

"Great. Okay. Talk to Andy. I'll call you later."

"Bye Michael. And say hi to Joanne for me, okay?" Jane didn't like to hear the wistful hope in Lisbon's voice.

"Sure thing. Bye." There was a click, and the line was disconnected – the heavy hum of the dial tone filled the room.

Lisbon's face was blank as she lifted the receiver and hung up, cutting off the sound. Jane watched in fascination as her face clouded over, pinching together as though in pain, and then just as quickly the emotions fell away.

"Sorry about that, Jane, what did you need?"

"Let me see, from his voice I'd say he's at least 6 feet tall, probably well-built, I'm guessing he's dark-haired, age between 29 and 35 . . . calls you a childish nickname - I'm going to go with . . . your brother."

"Guessed it in it one," said Lisbon, but there was no warmth in her voice.

"You have two brothers, so this Andy must be the other one – is Michael the middle child? Let me see, childish manner, evidence of pouting, I'm going to say the youngest. The _Baby_."

"Enough, Jane," said Lisbon quietly, and Jane looked up to catch the fleeting weariness fleet across her face.

"What did he want? He upset you," said Jane in a gentler voice.

"We're not going to be able to talk about anything else until I tell you, are we?" Asked Lisbon rhetorically. "Fine. You're right, Michael is my youngest brother. He wanted what he always wants – for us to put my parent's house on the market. He's trying to start a consulting business, he needs the money."

"And you don't want to."

"The house is all paid off and we're making a nice profit renting it out," said Lisbon defensively. "Plus, c'mon, the market sucks right now."

"And all your childhood memories are there," Jane speculated, watching her face.

No bite. "This is a rational decision, Jane, not an emotional one."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Obviously I'm going to talk to Andy, and if he agrees with Michael, we're going to sell the house."

"You always do what they want," Jane asserted, confidently. "Ever since you were children, you've catered to them, taken care of them. And now that they're adults, that they don't need you any more, they take you for granted."

"Learn when to quit, Jane," warned Lisbon.

"I bet you sent them to college," Jane pushed, unwilling to stop now that he had gotten a foothold in the mystery that was Teresa – _Tess_ – Lisbon. "You lent them money to buy their first cars, down payments on apartments, Christmas presents for their girlfriends."

"Didn't you have a question about the case? Or, like, literally any other subject?"

"And now they live far away and they only call when they need something. I bet they resent you now, don't they? Because you witnessed their helplessness. They don't like to remember."

"Jane . . ."

"If you don't want to sell your parents' house, you shouldn't sell it," Jane advised. "It's probably all you have left of them, isn't it?"

Lisbon turned on her computer monitor and selected a pencil. She was calm – too calm. Her movements were deliberate and unhurried, but when he looked into her face, he had trouble deciphering the emotions he saw there.

The truth was, although Lisbon didn't realize it, she had actually developed an excellent defense against his "psychic" abilities quite early in their relationship. They had only known each other a few weeks before she (and consequently he) became aware of a sexual attraction between them. Of course, it didn't mean anything, Lisbon would never act on it; she was far too professional. But she was aware of it, and embarrassed by her feelings.

If he could have, Jane would have told her not to worry about it – if he was completely honest, he would have to admit that he was a little attracted to her too. It was a chemistry thing – they were such different physical types, he blond and strapping, her little and dark: naturally it made him wonder what she looked like naked. But ever since she realized it, Lisbon was just a little self-conscious when she talked to him, and it made it difficult for him to tell if she was also hiding something else. He had never told her this, however, because he knew she would take advantage of his blind-spot.

"Lisbon?" he offered cautiously. "Do you want to talk about your parents?"

"Alright, get out," said Lisbon. "Out of my office. Go." Now she had bright spots of fury high on her cheeks, her face was drawn and tight, her lips pressed hard together. "Now."

She wasn't kidding.

"Okay, I pushed it too far, I understand," he placated. He should have realized that criticizing her brothers was only going to bring out her inner Mother Bear. "I actually wanted to talk about Ms. Fournell's involvement in the Harrison case . . ."

"Go do what you need to do, I'll get the details from Rigsby." Lisbon shut him down without meeting his eyes. "I've got to make a call." She reached for the phone and then paused, eyebrows raised, evidently waiting for him to leave.

"Lisbon, I'm sorry." He meant it. "I was trying to help."

"No you weren't. You were showing off. And for the record, I don't want your help. You close cases, fine, I appreciate your insights. Just keep it in the office, okay?"

"Lisbon – "

Wordlessly she hit a number on her speed dial. "Hi, I'm trying to reach Andrew Lisbon, please. Thank you so much." She waited patiently for the line to connect, her attention apparently fixed on her computer screen.

Okay, sometimes a tactical retreat was the best option in a military campaign. Jane made a quiet exit and pulled the door closed behind him, just barely behind her next words:

"Andy, hi, it's Tess! Sorry to bother you at work . . . no, I know you're busy . . . yeah, I'll make it really quick, I've got a lot to do here, too . . . right. Sorry."


	3. Disaster

"You have a headache," said Jane, leaning in very close to her face.

"What?"

"You get these little wrinkles between your eyebrows when you get a tension headache. I notice them a lot."

"Maybe I'm just getting wrinkly, you ever think of that?" responded Lisbon irritably.

They were alone in the empty office: it was past 8:00, and Lisbon had sent everybody on the team home. So naturally Jane was still there.

_You should try sitting on the couch_, Jane had suggested, _you don't get good lumbar support from the chair in your office_.

_My chair is fine, and that couch is gross_, Lisbon had responded.

So of course here she was, sitting on the damn couch, pretending she didn't have a headache. And damn if her head wasn't killing her.

"Comfortable?" His voice was soft.

Lisbon glanced quickly around the office: there was no one else around. They were alone. What was she still doing here, with Jane of all people? She should be going home, taking a hot shower, feeding her cat. Not taking chances with that inveterate envelope-pusher, Jane, who liked to poke and prod at her to find out her _deep dark secrets_, as if she had any such thing.

"It's not like I've never sat here before," she pointed out.

"Shhh, try to relax. It's quiet and cool in here, and you can just let your mind uncurl, let it wander until your head stops hurting, we can just sit here quietly . . ."

Her eyelashes wavered for a second before Lisbon shot out of the chair like a lightening bolt. "Jeezus, Jane, I've told you a hundred times not to try that voodoo crap on me!"

"You never relax enough to feel its good effects," said Jane, sounding hurt. "Now look, you've gone and made your headache worse, and here I am trying to help you."

She rubbed her temples. "How the hell can you . . . ?"

Jane motioned to the spot between his own eyebrows. "Wrinkles," he said smugly.

"Look, I'm gonna take a pill and then I'm going home, okay?" Lisbon scanned the room for her briefcase, which contained a bottle that Jane frequently drove her to. But before she could take more than a few steps in that direction, Jane's warm hand was closing firmly over her wrist.

What the – she hated it when he used his jedi mind tricks on her – no doubt he was taking her pulse for one of his experiments. To spite him, she concentrated for a second on her own exhaled breath, trying to ensure a low blood pressure. She didn't like him to know when he got under her skin.

"You don't need to take one of those," coaxed Jane, "you've got me!"

"You're a pill, alright," said Lisbon dryly.

"Just come sit back down, close your eyes – " Argh, she hated that he was so _persuasive!_ And yet she found herself following his directions anyway, sitting on the couch next to him while he held her cold hand in both of his big warm ones. Apparently absent-mindedly, he began rubbing it gently.

"You take aspirin for your headaches, I've noticed that before. You don't like IBprofin, probably because it upsets your stomach. You should try taking it with food, that would help."

Lisbon knew that he was rambling to relax her – she had seen him to it to a thousand suspects. "Jane . . ." she began, warningly.

"Alright, I'm just saying. You should try acetaminophen, I hear it's got fewer side effects. Well, it's not great for your liver, apparently, but then again, what is?"

Lisbon cracked an eye. "You've got a funny way of relaxing a girl, Jane," she muttered.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I just meant, you don't have to take any medication for your headache, I can get rid of it for you." She knew that his conciliatory mood was just one more way to manipulate her.

"Seriously, Jane, I just want to go home and take a shower," she said wearily, trying not to fall under the spell of his gentle hands rubbing her wrist, the smooth, soothing voice that he only used when he wanted something. This wasn't the real Jane, she knew it – this was just his stage presence, his alter ego, the amazing psychic grifter.

"Why won't you ever let me _help_ you?" murmured Jane, frustration evident in his voice.

"You work for me, Jane. You can help me by doing your job."

"I don't mean helping the CBI. I mean _you_. Hmm?" She felt his hand on her shoulder.

"I don't need any help," said Lisbon, but her voice was suddenly sounding kind of far away and echoing. "What are you . . .?"

"Shhh, you're alright. You're alright," said Jane, still chafing her hands between his own, and now very gently stroking her knuckles with his thumb. "You can feel all the muscles in your body relaxing, can't you? You can feel yourself gradually releasing all the tension you're carrying. So much tension." She was getting smaller and smaller . . . she was drifting away . . .

Jane started at her, fascinated: for a moment, Lisbon's expression cleared; her face in relaxation looked very young, like a little child. Her pulse under his hands was slow and steady.

"Good, Teresa. Deep breaths, that's good, just relax. Your headache will resolve all by itself."

As if his voice had somehow broken the spell, a shadow seemed to pass over her face, leaving her suddenly agitated. When she spoke, her voice was not that of someone in a trance, but someone trying to speak clearly over a long-distance phone line.

"Jane?" She was trying to wake herself up, he could tell. She was biting her lip between her teeth; Jane knew that the pain would distract her from what he was trying to do.

"Deep breaths. Relax." He reached over and gently pulled her lip out from between her teeth; she winced when he leaned over her.

"Stop it, Jane," she muttered, sounding half asleep. "Jane!"

Now she looked upset, not relaxed; if he looked closely, Jane could see that she had broken out in a light sweat.

He began lightly tapping on the back of her hand, using his thumb while his fingers were curled around hers. "You're okay, Teresa," he said softly. "You're fine. Nobody is going to hurt you. I'm not going to hurt you." He meant it.

"Jane, stop it . . . Jane!" She was flinching away, her face tight, and he saw that her free hand was clenched into a fist, the knuckles white with tension, and faintly shaking. "I'm cold," she said faintly. "I want to come inside. I'll be good, okay? I'll be good."

He had to bring her out of it, he couldn't watch this any more.

"Okay, Lisbon, okay, you're fine. You're going to wake up now, alright? You're going to wake up and feel relaxed and happy. On the count of three, when I touch your shoulder, you're going to wake up. One . . . two . . . three."

For a moment, nothing happened. They were both still.

"What was that," asked Lisbon, her voice gravelly and rough.

"Some people can have a negative reaction to hypnosis," said Jane gently, still holding her hand in both of his own. When she tried to pull back, he squeezed a little tighter and didn't let go. "It's called an abreaction," he added. He didn't mention that it was usually the result of suppressed negative experiences. "I'm sorry that it happened to you."

"Bad trip, I get it," said Lisbon, already sounding more like herself. He was amazed at how quickly she was throwing off the effects of the trance, but he supposed she had practice in resilience. "I told you not to try that stuff on me."

"If you had been less resistant you might have had a better result," he scolded, still not letting go of her hand. He tucked it under his arm when she tried to sit back. He was beginning to suspect that he was more shaken up than she was.

"Jane, I have to pee," said Lisbon bluntly. "And I've got to feed my cat. I'm going home."

"Do you feel like you're going to throw up? Do you feel shaky or cold?"

"No, I'm fine. And guess what? My headache's gone!" Lisbon finally succeeded in wriggling out of his grip and stood up – although Jane was watching her closely, she didn't seem unsteady on her feet.

"You're sure? You don't want a ride home?"

"Pretty sure you've helped enough for one day, Jane," said Lisbon, blowing her hair out of her face. "I'll see you tomorrow." She collected her jacket and her briefcase and brushed past him into the hallway.

Well, _that _went well, thought Jane sardonically. He was angry at himself: he was a master hypnotist, he should have been able to bring her through the abreaction successfully and finish the hypnosis. He had lost his cool.

But it wasn't just some random client – it was _Lisbon_. That meant - something.

And now he had blown his chance, and she was gone. He could hear her footsteps echoing in the stairwell at the end of the hall.

Over them, he heard the distinctive rattle of a bottle of pills.


	4. Progress

Lisbon locked the door to her office and pulled down the blinds. She turned on the ceiling fan, listening to the familiar _whomp whomp whomp_. She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk with the key hidden in a container of paper-clips.

She wondered if it was possible to be an alcoholic even if you never even drank. She had talked about it before, with her brothers; their relationship with alcohol was defective right out of the gate, and always had been. They could only see it as a solution for a particular problem, not a harmless social pastime.

It had been a hard case. But then, there were so many hard cases. After all, CBI wasn't called in until something terrible had already happened. Par for the course, really: a hideous crime, a brilliant revelation by Jane, a speedy resolution. She ought to be used to it. She _was_ used to it. She cracked the top off the unopened bottle, tossing the lid in the bin from across the room. _Three points_.

Lisbon was no dummy. She knew there were days when you couldn't win. As she poured herself three fingers of scotch and sat in her own dark office, she was pretty sure this was one of those days.

At least they caught the guy: It didn't matter what he had done to his brother-in-law and his wife, at least they got him in the end. Lisbon was aware that there were cases – not in her squad, obviously, but in other places – that were never solved at all. Departments ran out of time or manpower or leads to follow, and cases languished and died.

The scotch burned a little going down, but Lisbon didn't have any problem with that. Most of the time she talked herself through the letdown after a case, coaching herself to do better next time, to shake it off, to take it on the chin. But every once in a while it was healthy to have a little breakdown. Right?

She was a good drinker, if there was such a thing: she never, never drove (her keys were locked in her top drawer, with her unloaded gun). She knew exactly when enough was enough. She didn't make other people take care of her. She planned her night out in advance: she'd already spread a blanket and a pillow on Jane's nasty couch, and cracked a window so in the morning the stale smell of booze would not be noticeable.

She took another drink, willing the scotch scald away the tightness in her chest, which needed to be released before it choked her. She sipped slowly and tried not to think about what her brothers would say if they caught her drinking. They had all promised never to take it up and she had meant it at the time, but damn, she wasn't a saint. Nothing else made her feel better, and she had tried it all: sex, food, exercise, everything except drugs (she was a cop for chrissake, those things were illegal, and whatever Lisbon was, she wasn't somebody who broke the rules).

The first glass had gone down fast and Lisbon topped it up, eyeballing the number of shots. Man, she should really put this over ice or something. She took a long swallow and thought, _yep, needs ice._ She hoped her brothers had done a better job with their pledges than she'd done with hers.

She sank back into her chair and reclined under the lamp, feeling at last the faint loosening in her body, the faint, blessed haziness. For a second it felt like being back under Jane's spell, the first minute of it, when she was floating and free of responsibilities. But this was better, because there were no witnesses this time.

She capped the bottle to put it away.

There came the sound of footsteps from the bullpen next store; Lisbon froze, listening carefully. Surreptitiously she slid the glass and the bottle back into the drawer and pushed it shut; with her other hand, she reached for her purse, where she had stashed a stick of gum. Her office door was locked and the blinds were drawn, but the light was on and if someone was looking for her, they only had to knock. Plus, it was 9 pm on a Friday night; there were only a few people who would still be at the CBI offices, and Lisbon didn't want to talk to any of them.

Please, she thought, chewing on her gum slowly to cover up the smell, please let that be the janitor, who she could ask to come back another time. Anything, besides who she was afraid it was.

The handle of the door rattled. "Lisbon?"

Damnit, why hadn't she done this at home? Oh, right, because she didn't want to keep alcohol in the house. Because it scared her to see it in her cupboards. Because it gave her bad memories to see it next to her warm cans of diet coke and her bag of pistachio nuts.

Whatever happened, she could not open the door to Jane. He was too observant; even if nobody else could tell, he would know she'd been drinking.

But she couldn't pretend not to be there, that was absurd; he could probably see her silhouette through the blinds.

"Not tonight, Jane," she called back, firmly, relieved to find that her voice was clear.

"Lisbon?"

"You heard me. I'm not in the mood tonight. Come back tomorrow." Except tomorrow was Saturday and she planned to sneak out of here at first light. But other than that . . . Lisbon let her head drop back against the back of her chair and listened to the soothing noise of the fan, and the underlying sound of Jane picking her lock. Unbelievable.

"Sorry, I couldn't hear what you said," said Jane, sticking his head in the door. "Were you saying you wanted to talk?"

"No," said Lisbon. She was too tired to talk to him, and not at all in the mood for his games. Maybe if she refused to play along, he'd leave her alone.

"Oh, I must have been mistaken. Sorry." He came into her office and planted himself in the spare chair, propping up his feet.

There was silence.

"Rough case, wasn't it," he asked, very gentle sounding, the voice he used on teenage girls, who he evidently saw as fragile. Then again, he hadn't met Lisbon as a teenager.

"Rough case." She concentrated on not sounding the slightest bit drunk, hoping that the room was too dim for him to see her red cheeks – of maybe they could be excused as her usual low-grade embarrassment around him. As long as she kept all her responses to two words or less, maybe he wouldn't be able to tell anything was wrong.

"I keep thinking – if we had gotten there sooner, maybe . . . I should have realized what he was going to do."

"Nobody could have known," said Lisbon dully. "You're not psychic, Jane, whatever Rigsby believes." There she was, breaking her own rules again – funny how he had that affect on her.

"I'm sorry, Lisbon."

She cracked an eyelid. "For not being psychic? Heck, I'm sorry I'm not psychic too. It would make this job a lot easier. But it's nothing to apologize over."

"I know. I'm just – sorry that it worked out the way it did."

"Yeah," – Lisbon yawned widely, and blushed – "it was just a bad case, Jane, they happen sometimes." Her strategy seemed to have worked: she marveled at the blankness she felt when she thought of the days' events. There was no guilt, no emotion of any kind. Blessed, blessed relief. "We just couldn't get there soon enough. We tried. We did everything we could. Sometimes – sometimes, the devil wins."

"What do you do about it?"

Obviously, if he knew what she did, he wouldn't like it. "I do what the good guys always do," said Lisbon, "I get myself ready for the next time."

"You forgive yourself?" Jane clarified.

"Well, I ask for forgiveness. And then I get ready to fight another day."

She expected him to push, but he didn't say anything. In fact, he was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, she thought he would show her how clever she was, reading her mind, digging up some unpleasant half-truth, no doubt connecting her current guilt to her rotten past.

"I think it's – nice," he said finally.

"Nice?" He was probably setting her up. She shot him a nasty look that made her eyes ache, couldn't hold it very long, and focused her attention on watching the spinning fan. With one eye closed, she could see the blades as they spun. With both eyes open, it was just a blur.

"Sure, that you – that you give yourself a time to feel sad. It's okay to feel sad sometimes." Jane let a haunted smile cross his face and then flicker out. "I like to take the time to experience the full range of human emotions – although, uh, I try to do it in, ah, moderation, these days."

Funny how easily she forgot his little breakdown, until he reminded her. It came her in a flash how generous he was, with his experiences, how willing to share them with her. "Thanks, Jane," she muttered. "That's nice of you to say."

"I should go," he said finally. "I can see my spot on the couch is taken tonight."

"No, you can have it," said Lisbon suddenly. "I'm just going to finish up here" – uh, make that _sober up_ – "and then I'm heading home. I changed my mind." Darnit, now she had to find some actual paperwork to finish.

"Feeling better? Ready for next time?"

She felt a genuine smile cross her face. "Actually, yeah," she said. Alright, maybe a little company hadn't been such a terrible thing.

"Then I'll leave you alone so you can get done sooner," said Jane. "Goodnight, Lisbon."

He was letting her go? No calling her out? She had really gotten away with it? She felt an unexpected burst of pride. "Goodnight."

She had glanced away, and the next time she looked up he was standing right over her; man, could he move _quietly_ when he wanted to! He touched her shoulder gently, not in a creepy-hypnotism way, just as a gesture of friendship.

"Lisbon? Drink lots of water before you go to sleep," he whispered. "Don't want to get dehydrated." As quickly as he had come, he was gone. She could hear him whistling in the hallway.

_Damn him!_


	5. Relenting

Jane was not going to say anything, no matter how badly he wanted to. Lisbon had been dancing around something all afternoon, obviously struggling with a question she wanted to ask him. He had formed a personal resolution not to make the first move.

He did poke his head in her office at the end of the day.

She had her back to the door – usually she didn't stand that way, preferring to 'keep the sightlines clear,' whatever that meant. Clearly she was distracted.

There were two dresses, both black and short, hanging from her ceiling fan. They were both on wire hangers, although Jane could tell at a glance that they were designer items that warranted garment bags. Lisbon was glaring at them as if they had personally insulted her. Jane was _not saying anything._

"I'm going to take off for the night, Lisbon," he told her calmly, seeming not to notice her state of agitation. "See you tomorrow."

She had known he was there, and turned around slowly. "Oh, Jane, uh –," Lisbon lapsed into silence, looking tongue-tied. Jane held his breath. "Come in a sec, would you?"

_Good girl, Teresa_. He beamed and stepped forward eagerly, while simultaneously trying not to push her. If she wanted something, she had to ask for it.

Silence.

Ok, he would take pity on her _just this one time_, but only because she was so endearingly bad at this: "Something you needed?"

Lisbon ran a hair through her dark hair and looked frustrated. "Well, uh, sorta. There's this stupid – _thing_." She waved her hands uselessly to indicate the 'thing' she was supposed to do, and Jane nodded understandingly although he really didn't know what she was talking about.

"Ah ha."

"Alright, don't laugh. You aren't going to laugh, are you? You're going to laugh at me."

"Okay, I won't laugh. I promise," said Jane, serious, but with a smile already tugging the corners of his lips.

"I'm supposed to be going undercover tonight," Lisbon revealed.

Jane raised an eyebrow.

"I'm supposed to be the kind of rich woman that would hire someone to kill her husband. Tonight I meet with a suspect we've been contacting over the internet, to arrange a hit."

Jane frowned. This sounded a little dangerous, although it was ridiculous to worry about someone who spent her days in contact with, by definition, the worst criminal offenders in the state of California. And those were _good_ days. Bad days they dealt with congressmen.

"And what, you want me to go with you? Or you want some advice about maintaining a cover?"

"What? No! I happen to be great undercover - always have been." Lisbon scowled at him and Jane took a well-considered step backwards. She looked just mad enough to hit him. "Just because _you_ claim to know when I'm lying doesn't mean everybody else can."

"Of course," he nodded. 'Translucent,' he had called her once, but he knew better than to argue with an angry woman. At least not when she was armed. "I'm sure you'll be very convincing."

More glowering. "I didn't ask you in here for _encouragement_, Jane, I need _fashion advice._"

"Oh. Great!" said Jane. "Because I'm actually much better at that." He strode forward with obvious enthusiasm to examine the dresses. Hmm, similar weight, comparable sizes, one with overlapping straps of fabric, the other with a noticeable sheen.

"I need to project 'classy,'" said Lisbon helpfully. "Does one of those say 'classy' to you?"

"Hmm," said Jane.

"If I can't sell 'classy' we're going to blow this op," Lisbon fretted. "Man, I should have gotten Van Pelt to do this. But I know she's got her family in town this week. I think she says 'classy' better than I do. It's the height."

"Stop saying 'classy,'" Jane instructed. He compared necklines, scoop neck versus boat neck. Always a tough call. "This woman you're trying to be, she wouldn't call it that."

Lisbon came to stand next to him as he examined the hem of one of the dresses, trying to see what he saw. "Oh yeah, what would she call it?"

"Hmm. Good question. Not elegance, not breeding – 'refinement.' That's why you're going to pick this dress." He indicated his preference with an elaborate wave of his hand. "It's _refined_."

"That one's shorter," Lisbon objected. "I think the other one will cover my thigh holster better."

Hmm, thigh holster. No, he was going to stay on task. "It has less detailing. The lines are clean. No distractions. That's who this woman is, she cuts down the nonessentials. That's what her husband has become, a distraction, and she's going to refine him right out of her social calendar. It's . . . classic."

He held up the dress in front of Lisbon, picturing her in it, her little face twisted with spite and distain. Whoops, that was kind of hot, actually. Hmm. "The woman who wears this dress to meet with a hit-man – she's powerful, intelligent . . . sensual. This dress will convince him that she is who she says she is."

"Don't get carried away," said Lisbon, whose eyes had narrowed at 'sensual.' "It's just a dress."

Yes, it was. It would only work if the woman inside of it could pull it off. But somehow, Jane wasn't worried about that. "Wear this one," he insisted.

"Fine." She pulled it down off the hanger and slung it over her arm. "Alright, I'm going to meet with Minelli and get wired. You're taking off, right? Have a good night."

Jane had a feeling his plans for the night had just changed to prowling the halls of the CBI building until he caught sight of Lisbon in the dress he had picked out for her . . . and then, of course, waiting for her to return safely. But no need to mention that to her. "Good luck," he replied, turning to go.

Lisbon sighed, started to say something, cut herself off, and started again, obviously reluctant - then finally muttered, "Thank you, Jane."

A slow smile spread across Jane's face, even reaching up to his eyes. "Happy to help."

**FIN**

_Thanks so much to everybody who read or reviewed!_


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